I've Never Had Air Sickness Before!
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: A CABIN PRESSURE FANFIC. "Wha-? No, no, no! I'm not sick! Why would I be sick? I don't get air sickness; I've dreamt of being in the air since-" "Yes, Martin, we know all about your dreams. However, in this instance, you are a living-breathing-cold-or-flu-breeding-machine. Please don't sneeze on the controls." Martin's ill, whether he wants to admit it or not.
1. Chapter 1

**I've Never Had Air Sickness Before!**

**1**

It started with the nausea.

Martin woke up with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't have the time to dwell on it; Carolyn was on one of her 'money-pinching' kicks, as Douglas called them, and she was doing the driving. So, in the half hour he had, he just barely managed to nip into the shower, grab a small breakfast which consisted of toast, and get out the door in order to be at Carolyn's at the appointed time.

"Hey Skip!"

"Morning, Arthur," he said, nodding towards the twenty-nine year old. "Where's your Mum?"

"Being the generalized slow woman that she is," Douglas interrupted, "she's probably still in the shower and, when she surfaces, she will blame _us _for being late."

"Wow, how did you know? Have you been spying?" Arthur chirped, looking quickly at Douglas. "Skip, isn't Dougie brilliant?"

"I thought we agreed to never mention that again!" Douglas said sharply.

"Oh, he's wonderful," Martin replied sarcastically, leaning heavily back against Carolyn's car.

"Martin Crieff, get your elbows off of my car!"

Martin jumped, immediately flinching away from the car and looking reflexively towards the door. "O-O-Oh, sorry! I didn't, I mean, you weren't-"

"Just because I'm not supervising you every second doesn't mean that you can use my car as an armrest," Carolyn replied sharply, tugging on a jacket. "Douglas, take the passenger seat. Martin and Arthur, you take the back."

"Always in the back..." Martin muttered, wrenching the back door open. "I'm the Captain, but I'm always in the back. How is this fair?"

"Fortunately, Martin, I am perfectly capable in driving a car," Carolyn replied. "I only need your small expertise in piloting for MJN."

Martin sighed, his breath coming out in a huff. He slammed the car door with maybe a little force. He flinched at the pain that the noise tore through his eardrums.

"You okay, Skip?"

"Yeah, fine," he replied, slumping back against the seat.

"He's just sulking."

"I'm not sulking! Why do you think I'm sulking?" Martin fired back, sitting up. "I'm _sitting_! I don't know why you think I'm sulking when I'm really just sitting."

"_Seatbelts!_" Carolyn barked. "We're moving!"

"Although, according to Captain Obvious back there, we're sitting," Douglas stated.

Martin clicked on his seatbelt, leaning back against the seat again.

It started with the nausea.

Before the car ride even begun to move, the nausea was coupled with a headache.

* * *

**I've listened to approximately two episodes of ****_Cabin Pressure_****. I can't find the rest. Oh, why, why, why am I stuck in the Americas? I'm British at heart! Nothing against America, but I long to be where the telly is amazing and radio programmes aren't talking about stock markets or agriculture! Where amazing hot stars like our dear Benny live! -Sigh-**

**Well, yes, I just found ****_Cabin Pressure_**** last night and I ended up listening to "Abu Dhabi" and "Rotterdam" and now, because of my passion for sick!fics... **

**I'm not good with humour, but I'm trying to incorporate it in the ****_Cabin Pressure_**** style. Hopefully it shows, because it's going to get serious before it's done with. Thanks for reading and I appreciate any and all reviews/favs/follows!**


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

"Martin, are you going to do the briefing or must I remind you?"

"In saying that, Carolyn, you _have_ just reminded him."

"Shut up, Douglas. Martin?"

"I think Skip's asleep, Mum."

"What? Well, he can't sleep while flying Gertie. Wake him up."

"Carolyn, if you wake him up now, he'll be utterly lethargic and rather disagreeable all during the walk-around."

"Douglas, the last time I checked, Mr. Cheerful back there performs the walk-around, by himself. I don't see why it should concern you if he is lethargic and disagreeable."

"Well, the mood will linger."

"Pity if you can't play _Brians of Britain_."

"No, we try to play a different game every day, but that's a totally irrelevant story."

"Of course it is. Mar_tin_!"

"I'm awake, of course I'm awake," Martin mumbled quickly. "How could _anyone_ sleep with you lot talking?" He had been trying to tune them out, admittingly, although it was a rather hard to manage thing with anyone associated with MJN.

"So, are you going to do it or what?"

"Do it? Do what?" Martin asked, blinking hard. The car was rocking a bit more than it probably should have been, he reckoned, but he was quite sure it would all go away once they were on Gertie. Everything was always better when he put a foot on board their airplane. Everything.

"Oh, for-" Carolyn huffed. "The weather's good, although rain is expected in Tundara within six hours. Not heavy, so we should be fine. Our alternate is Mbeya. Douglas, you will operate out, Martin, back-"

"No, no, wait a second here, _I'm_ the Captain, I should operate out."

"You're also sleeping in the back of my car on the way, so do forgive me if I take a few liberties in making decisions." She paused. "Actually, you don't have to forgive me. Don't forgive me. I don't care."

Carolyn's voice had all but bled together by the end of her statement. Martin wasn't listening. The nausea from earlier was back with a fiery passion. Oh- Oh, oh, no, he couldn't upchuck on the back of Carolyn's seats, she'd kill him via all sorts of particularly painful torture-

"You all right, Skipper?"

"Martin?"

"He's gone all green, Douglas!"

"Wai-_what_?"

The car came to a suddenly screeching halt. Martin almost pitched forward into the back of Carolyn's seat, had it not been for the restraint of his seatbelt. His stomach jolted painfully, the throbbing in his head doubling.

"Out!"

He didn't need telling twice. He scrabbled at his seatbelt, throwing the car door open. The blast of air cleared his head, lessened his urgency when he felt like he wasn't going to heave tea and toast over the backseat.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Carolyn demanded.

"What? Just a bit light-headed s'all."

"You looked like you were about to-to _explode_ upon my upholstery!"

"Come on, all I had for breakfast was a cup of tea and toast."

"Would make for rather unattractive vomit," Douglas said, peering over the back of the seat.

"Douglas, please," Carolyn snapped. "Now are you done playing Mother Bird, so we can crack on?"

Martin took another deep breath of the air, letting his eyes wander across the landscape. "Yeah, I'm fine. Perfectly brilliant."

"You don't look brilliant, Skipper. Once I ate some prawns and was violently ill for the better part of three hours. The interesting thing was that when I ate them, they were pink, but when they came back up, it was orange!"

"... Thank you, for that rather _colourful_ piece of information, Arthur," Douglas stated, turning to face the front.

"Colour- _oh_, I see what you did there. My colourful vomit and colourful can be used as an adjective, so-"

"_Thank _you, Arthur."

The rest of the ride there was enveloped in silence and Martin only had his churning stomach, a pounding headache, and a rather daft twenty-nine year old for company.

* * *

**I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, but the humour [at least, Douglas's snarky humour] kicks it in in the next chapter. Thank you to my reviewers and, hopefully, more feedback will be posted. I'm still rather unsure about the comedy, as it's not my lark. xD Hopefully you all like it, and thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**3 **

His mood brightened increasingly by the time that he stepped foot onto Gertie. His headache had gone away, his stomach had calmed down, and now he even almost found himself hungry. He nicked a pack of biscuits on his walk-around, joining Douglas in the flight-deck.

"Is Mr. Green all alive and well?" Douglas asked as Martin sank into the pilot's chair.

"Mr. Green? Oh, that's clever," Martin scoffed, biting into a biscuit. "I suppose you'll call me Mr. Biscuit now?"

"Whatever would I do that for, _sir_."

"Listen to me, I told you not to call me 'sir'. 'Captain' is fine."

"Of course, Captain, but, as I mentioned to you before, my overwhelming amount of respect for _Sir_ cannot be contained all of the time, Captain _Sir_."

"Martin! Just call me Martin!"

"Of course... _Martin_." Douglas took his seat. "Everything all clear on the walk-around? Heating off in the cargo hold?"

"_Yes_, thank you. I can remember things now and again."

"Is that why it took you seven tries-"

"Oh, don't even bring that up, Mr... Smuggler," Martin grumbled, munching on another biscuit.

"_Wonderful_ name, Martin. Your creative juices are just _overflowing_ this morning."

Martin sniffed, brushing crumbs onto his pants. "Fuel system checked, then?"

"Yes, Martin."

"Hydraulics?"

"Fine, Martin."

"Transponder?"

"Of course, Captain Martin. I know I'm a stunning first-officer, but do try to control your praise."

"The plane still has both wings?"

"Like a big, pristine metal bird."

"Brilliant." He reached for the intercom to buzz for Carolyn, to reaffirm the key points, when the nasty jolt from before hit him with a doubled intensity. With a short gasp, he doubled over, pressing his forehead against his knees.

"Is _Sir_ all right?"

Martin waved a dismissive hand at Douglas, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

"Martin?"

There was pressure on his shoulder just then and he flinched in surprise, realizing only afterwards that it was Douglas that had placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry," he gasped, snaking his arms around his stomach.

Douglas held up his hands. "I was only making sure that _Sir_ was still quite alive, as that is a very necessary key point to being able to fly this plane."

Martin gave a short nod. The motion shook the world more than it should have; he had a sudden, terrifying notion of being caught in a tornado before the pain in his stomach turned sickeningly unpleasant. He jumped up from the pilot's chair and pushed past Douglas, barely making it into the loo before his meager breakfast and recent biscuits forced themselves back up.

... Brilliant.

"Oh, dear, it seems as though Captain _Upchuck _has _heaved _the last remains of what would have been a spectacularly _colourful _flight. It seems, and I say this by no means to be a yawn, _technicolour_ as it might be, that the hopes of Captain _Queasy_ flying this possibly-able-to-become-a-_projectile_-aircraft have just been flushed down the toilet."

"Douglas," Martin moaned. "Stop referencing my puke," he muttered without dignity.

"Oh, I'm _sorry_. I tend to have sporadic bursts of word vomit now and again."

Martin swallowed reflexively.

"Douglas? Why are you talking to the loo?"

"Oh, Arthur, I'm not talking to the loo. Martin's _in _the loo, so I'm talking through the door."

"Oh, makes sense. Why's Martin in the loo, eh?"

"Well, Arthur, why are people _generally_ in the loo?"

"Oh, oh! There's a multitude of reasons for that, actually! Someone could be using the facilities, or they could be washing up, washing their hands for instance. In another case, they could be checking themselves out in the mirror- Mum does that a lot. Or acts of passio-"

"_Thank_ you, Arthur," Martin muttered, resurfacing from the loo. "Very... thorough."

"Hey, Skipper, you look bad. Did you eat some bad prawns, Captain?"

The thought of prawns was enough to make his stomach flip again, but he was spared responding when Douglas interrupted.

"Captain came into some terrible biscuits, as it were, Arthur. Could you, perhaps, set up a cheese tray for us? It would be most lovely."

"Oh! Yeah, right. I'll do that!"

Martin spared Douglas a quick glance. "Thank you," he said in a monotone, brushing past his elder in returning to his seat.

"Not a problem, not a problem... However..."

"Oh," Martin muttered, sinking heavily into his chair, preparing himself for whatever Douglas was about to say.

"I do wonder if you have taken any paracetamol yet."

Martin swiveled his head to look at the first-officer. He frowned, slightly, unable to decide if the older man was messing with him or not.

"No..." Martin started slowly. "No, I haven't... I was out the door to be at Carolyn's on time."

"Oh, yes, arriving late to the shark's home... would have deadly consequences," Douglas replied. "I'll get you some, so stay put."

Martin stared after him when the door had closed. He still didn't know...

The door opened about a half second later, Douglas being ushered back in by an irritated looking Carolyn.

"Can we _please_ get this plane off the ground? We are on something that I like to call, and you may have not heard of this before, a _schedule_!"

Douglas flashed Martin a look that seemed to say _Sharky has returned! _Martin actually stifled a laugh, turning back to the controls.

"Yes, Carolyn. We're getting Gertie off the ground right now. Don't worry."

"Well, with a pilot who had to take his test _seven_ times, I can't help but worry."

Martin resisted the urge to sigh, sinking slightly lower in his seat. It was going to be a long day. It was going to be a very, very... _long_ day.

* * *

**So, basically, this chapter's main question was, like, '****_How many times can I work vomit into one sentence?_****' And, well, this is pretty much the answer to it. Haha. **

**Hoping you're liking it so far. Always looking for feedback. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

"Cox."

Martin frowned over the controls, looking towards his first-officer. "... Excuse me?" He blinked slowly, eyebrows hitching towards his hairline.

"_Brian_ Cox," Douglas replied in a tone of mock innocence and exasperation.

"Oh." Martin looked back to the controls.

"What ever did you think I was talking about, my dear _Sir_?"

"Nothing, Douglas. Besides, I thought we weren't playing this game today."

"We play the game when it comes to us, Martin. You can't stifle genius."

"Genius?" Martin scoffed.

"Well, I am inevitably going to win, anyway."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I always do."

"That's not fa-_achoo!_"

"'That's not fachoo'? Have you created a new word? What exactly is the meaning of this 'fachoo'?"

Martin waved him away, rubbing his nose. "Tissues, tissues... Why don't we have tissues?"

"One moment." Douglas pressed the intercom button. "Carolyn?"

"Douglas!" Martin hissed, sinking lower in his chair as though that might prevent Carolyn from knowing that he was not there.

_"What is it _now, _Douglas? We are not diverting simply because there is a flock of geese straight ahead, if that _is _Martin's plan."_

"That was a legitimate reason, Carolyn!" Martin said hotly, sitting up again. "I shudder to think of how we may have killed them!"

"No, there are no geese," Douglas said calmly, in his reassuring voice that grated on Martin's ears on the best of days. Today it was just... beyond annoying. "It's just that Sir McSnot up here is in dire need of some tissues. Perhaps Arthur could run one of those little packets up? Oh, and I've found myself out of cheese."

_"You've eaten all the cheese. Is Martin sick_ again_?"_

"Again? I'm rarely sick! That one time was purely _food poisoning_! You-You _poisoned_ me with cabin food! That was hardly my fault!"

_"Shut up, Martin. You're sick."_

"I'm not sick!"

_"Shut_ up! _Thank you. You are sick-"_

"Wha-? No, no, _no_. Why would I be sick? I don't get _air_ sickness; I've dreamt of being in the air since-"

_"Yes, Martin, we know_ all_ about your dreams. However, in this instance, you are a living-breathing-cold-or-flu-breeding-machine. Please don't sneeze on the controls."_

Martin sank back in his chair again, sighing heavily. He pressed two fingers against his left temple, massaging at the pain that had been building there. He wasn't sick, he was just... tired. That was it. He was tired.

"Oh, and Carolyn? You couldn't go wrong with sending Arthur with some paracetamol as well."

_"Fine."_

Martin shivered, casting a long glare towards his elder.

"You're welcome, _Sir_."

"I'm not thanking you! This is a glare; I'm glaring at you!"

"Oh, really? I thought that was how your face always looked."

Martin would have retorted, or at least, given up the argument with some haughty noise (because he probably would have lost, anyway; he always did), had his body not decided to pull another tremendous shiver. Oh, it was cold, so cold. He just wanted to curl up in a little ball and go back to sleep...

The flight-deck door whipped open as Arthur bounced in. "Oi, Skipper, Mum says you're sick! I brought you meds and a couple little packets of these super-soft tissues, and a couple of blankets, because she said you might be cold. She also said, Douglas, that you should take over the controls and let Martin rest."

"I would be absolutely delighted."

"What? _No!_ _I'm_ the Captain!"

"Mum also said that you would probably say that, and she told me to say that you should let Douglas take over because you might press a button when you accidentally sneeze. No, I mean- you might sneeze when you accidentally press a button. No, now, that's not right, either. What did she say..."

"... That he might accidentally press a button when he sneezes?" Douglas asked dryly.

"Yes! That was it!"

"What? How could I even _possibly_ do that?"

"Well, Martin, if you happened to sneeze with the force of a thousand elephants, your precious little head could pitch forward, and your rather delicate nose could careen into a button. Say, an emergency button. How terrible that would be."

Martin shivered again, reaching for one of the blankets. "I'm just cold."

"And nauseous, and sniffly, and you have a headache. So, take the medicine and let me take the controls."

Martin wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, leaning back. "I'm fine." He wanted to draw his legs up, wraps his arms around them and force himself into the smallest position he could. He wanted the warmth. He couldn't, however, do that, because he was proving to Douglas that he was fine. He didn't _need_ the warmth...

He shivered hard again, the tremor moving from head to toe. He felt like he should have been generating some warmth, considering the harsh shivering. But, he wasn't, he just _wasn't_-

"Martin."

Martin opened his eyes (which he hadn't closed consciously) and looked at Douglas. The first-officer was looking back at him sternly. It wasn't a look that Martin was particularly familiar with, but he had noticed that Carolyn used it a lot when looking at Arthur.

"... Fine," Martin murmured, the word coming out half-slurred because he didn't want to actually open his mouth to actually say it.

"Jolly good, Martin," Douglas said cheerfully.

Martin pressed hid fingers against his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. Carolyn was right. They all were right. He was a terrible pilot. Brought down by a cold... a terrible, _terrible_ pilot.

* * *

**Humour at the beginning and a bit of angsty Martin at the end. I think people like to mess with our dear pilot when it comes to fanfiction, so I'll just give him an illness and a little bit of angst. That's not ****_so_**** bad, compared to other things... **

**Thanks for the feedback. I appreciate it and would love to see more. :) **


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

They had talked him into resting. They had practically wrangled him from the flight-deck, not that he'd gone without a fight. But, in the end, he settled for hopes of not vomiting on the floor and curling up in one of the seats. They had no passengers, so he was able to recline in one of the seats and (somewhat) relax. And, through the warmth of the blankets, through the silence, through the generally calming atmosphere, he had fallen asleep. It had been peaceful. It figured. He was almost always at peace in the air...

Now, he was just waking up, unsure of what time it was, blinking slowly into the light of the plane.

"You look beautiful," said a voice above him.

Martin blinked hard again. Slowly, the amused face of none other than Douglas Richardson swam into view. "Douglas..."

"Do try to contain yourself, Martin. Don't get overexcited. It would be terrible for your fever."

Martin mumbled something in return, although he wasn't sure sure had been trying to say, anyway. Then, suddenly...

He sat up very quickly.

"Who's flying the plane!?"

If Douglas was here, Douglas couldn't be flying the plane, so-

"Oh, _right_. I knew that there was something that I was supposed to be doing. I thought I left the stove on," Douglas replied.

Martin tried to scramble up, throwing the blankets off. "Douglas- you, I-I-I mean, I can be a terrible pilot, but-"

Douglas placed a hand on Martin's shoulder, preventing him from moving. "Oh, do calm down. Do you honestly think that I would forget that I had to fly a plane, Martin?"

Martin blinked up at him wearily, frowning. "What...?"

"We landed ten minutes ago, Martin."

"Oh... Good," he muttered, fumbling to straighten his seat. "We can head back home..." His head was pounding worse than before, and he had only just woken up. He just wanted to get home and get back to bed.

"No."

Martin stopped, looking up towards Douglas again. "What?"

"We're staying here."

"_What?_ Why would we stay here? We only had to unload!" Martin complained.

"We're staying here for a bit. Carolyn's spent a bit of money on a hotel. We're staying until our beloved pilot can get back on his feet."

Martin blinked in surprise, looking up at him, trying to figure out if he was lying or not. It would be something for him to do, taunt him a bit with the thought of actually having a bed to go to. A place to stay while he was sick. Rather than having to deal with being a plane seat and trying to sleep... He loved the air and he loved flying, but the headache and stomach ache was... not nice.

"I am serious, Martin," Douglas said after a moment of silence.

Martin let out a breath that he wasn't aware he had been holding. He let the blankets fall to the ground before standing. His legs, however, half-numb from lack of use, half-weak from the fever, crumpled. Douglas caught him before he could hit the ground.

"I was going to ask if you could walk, but it seems not."

"I-I'm fine," Martin gasped, struggling to find his footing.

Suddenly, Douglas had swept his legs out from under him and pulled him into his arms, bridal style, preventing him from attempting to walk at all.

"D-Douglas! Put me down!" he stammered, clutching at Douglas' uniform so he wouldn't fall.

"Sorry, Sleeping Beauty. I simply cannot do that."

"Douglas!" he complained, resisting the urge to flail a bit. His stomach was churning from the excess of movement, and the world was swaying with Douglas' every step. He turned his head, nuzzling his head against Douglas's arm. "D-Douglas, y-y-you might want to put me down," he muttered, swallowing. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think of other things except the lurching motion of their walking.

Pilots. He'd studied so long to become a pilot.

Flying. He'd dreamed of being in the air since he could form thoughts.

Gertie. Such a great plane. Some might call it stupid. But he loved it.

MJN air. Carolyn called it an airdot. Martin loved it.

Their crew. Their own little family... He loved his family...

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, the room was dark. Room? He didn't recall even getting to a room... The last thing he remembered was Douglas carrying him out of Gertie...

He sat up, a cool cloth falling from his forehead. He frowned a bit, picking up the cloth, looking at it. Douglas had been here, been taking care of him...?

He swung his legs out of the bed, pressing his fingers against his temples. His forehead was damp, with sweat or water from the cloth, he couldn't tell. He felt generally... nasty.

"I need a shower," he muttered out loud.

"I daresay."

He jumped at Douglas' voice at the doorway. The older man had a bowl in his hands, along with another cloth.

"However, Captain, you're very ill, and you need to be resting. So, kindly lay back down and do not make me restrain you."

Martin wrinkled his nose as Douglas crossed the room. "Just a minute."

"Martin," Douglas said in stern voice.

"Yeah, just give me a minute!" he retorted hotly, struggling to his feet. He swayed slightly and gripped onto the bedpost for support.

"And what, pray tell, is so important that you're risking falling on your face?"

"The loo, Douglas! Can't I get three minutes away from bed?"

"Now, don't be testy. You could have just said so." Douglas said, sitting down the bowl. He offered a hand to Martin.

Martin stared at it. "... What? You're not carrying me again."

"Oh, how disappointing. I do love to tote around Sir like he is the newest in a line of a very famous collection of purses."

Martin gave him a sour look.

"You're unsteady on your feet. Just take my hand," Douglas continued.

"Fine," Martin muttered, straightening up. "But I could have done it on my own." He opted to grip Douglas' arm instead, but the point was the same, and he managed to get to the nearby bathroom without any injuries.

"Can you manage from here, do you think? Or will you require my assistance further?" Douglas asked as he stopped outside the bathroom. His voice was humourous again, amused. The amazing way that the man went from snarky to serious made Martin's head hurt even worse.

He lifted his chin, letting go of Douglas' arm. "Of course I can manage," he said, feeling a bit warm due to Douglas' teasing. It wasn't _his_ fault that he was sick, so why did he have to put with Douglas making fun?

"Good man." Douglas patted him on the back with a little too much force. Martin stumbled through the doorway before shutting the door in his face.

The hotel seemed a bit nice. Not too run-down, which was usually what the hotels that they stayed in were like. Carolyn and her desire to save money didn't always mean nice accommodations. But, as long as it had a roof, he couldn't complain.

He went about everything as normal, asides from the stumbling, and he opened the bathroom door not five minutes later with cool water still dripping from his chin. Splashing cold water on his face left him breathless and shivering, but it also refreshed him to a point.

"Welcome back," Douglas greeted.

Martin just scrubbed his sleeve across his chin to wipe away the water droplets, once again clinging to the co-pilot as he made his way back to bed. Once he was back in bed, he made an immediate grab for the blankets; Douglas stopped him.

"I'm cold!"

"Yes, but your body is warm and the main concern is lowering that body temperature," Douglas replied. Martin huffed, curling his fingers into his palms, trying to find a bit of warmth. "You can have one blanket, though," Douglas continued.

They didn't talk. Douglas gave him more paracetamol. Put the cool cloth back on his head. Watched over him. Martin tried to ignore him, tried to fall back asleep.

Some time later, a moment when Martin thought that he must have fallen asleep, or fallen into a dark abyss that was neither consciousness nor unconsciousness, he found words on the edges of his lips.

"'m sorry..." he murmured.

"What was that?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, forcing his eyes open. Douglas was looking down at him with his eyebrows raised. "For being sick and... stuff," he finished lamely, his eyes fluttering shut again. He was so tired. He'd been sleeping so much and he was so _tired_-

"It's okay."

Martin forced his eyes open again, looking back at Douglas. Being told that everything was okay wasn't something that Martin was used to. Hell, he didn't even say it to himself. Everything hadn't been okay before his pilot's test, or when he failed his pilot's test_s_ several times. Everything hadn't been okay when his father had refused to bequeath anything to him in fear of him wasting money to become a pilot. Everything hadn't been okay when he found himself short on money, when he had to start the delivery service. Everything still wasn't okay- in fact, it was rather far from okay.

He closed his eyes again, ignoring the sudden stinging to them. He raised an arm to rest it over his eyes and licked his lips, swallowing hard.

"It's not your fault."

Somehow, coming from Douglas, Martin really, _really_ believed those words. Maybe it was his stupid perfect airline voice...

A small laugh bubbled past his lips.

"I think the fever's going to your head, Captain. At this rate, you'll never be able to fly again. I'd have to take over controls permanently, and you know how I'd _hate_ to do that." Douglas' voice was sarcastic, but Martin didn't miss the level of concern.

"Right..." Martin murmured, pulling the one blanket he was allowed closer.

"Get some sleep, Martin." And the sarcasm was gone again. Martin was really getting whiplash. Really, though, he probably would have hated it if Douglas went totally caring. Totally serious Douglas seemed odd, just... just odd. He always had to have a level of wit about him...

"Yes, Douglas... Doctor Douglas," he mumbled, lips twitching towards a smile again.

Without opening his eyes, Martin heard Douglas snicker quietly in laughter.

* * *

**The lines of perception are a bit blurred with Martin's illness, so there's a bit of angst. From what I've been able to tell, in the radio programme, Martin isn't exactly living the posh life. So, I think just a teensy bit of angst about life and things being okay/not being okay isn't entirely OOC.**

**On another note, I love parental!Douglas, even though it's so freakin' difficult to write him ****_serious_****. Because he is the witty character. And I think he does have remotely serious scenes in the programme[?], but I haven't heard them, so...**

**AND I managed to work a _Sherlock_ quote into it [and accidentally, too]. If there's any Sherlockians reading this, I bet you can find the quote... Haha.**

**Well, thanks for your support! It's much appreciated!**


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

Martin rolled over, burying his face into the blankets. There was noise, too much noise... bothering his head...

"Is Skip gonna be alright?"

"He'll be better than fine. He'll be brilliant."

"Really, Douglas? He doesn't look so good."

"He'll ill, Arther. You don't look particularly well when you're ill, either. I would know, as I have to look at you constantly. Unfortunately for myself, I do have to live with you." A woman's voice, brisk and sharp and patronizing...

Martin groaned quietly, trying to ignore the thumping in his head. He wanted to go back to sleep... everything hurt...

"Skipper?! I think he's awake."

"Arthur, darling, shut up."

"It would be for the best if you two left us alone."

"But, Douglas, don'tcha think you ought to leave him alone, too?"

"I'm playing doctor, so I have to be here."

Martin flapped one of his hands towards the voices. "S-Stop..." he moaned, grabbing his pillow to bury his face into it. He just wanted them to be silent, to stop talking, because his head was pounding and his stomach was tying and untying itself. He knitted his fingers amongst the blankets, clenching his teeth as a chill ripped down his spine.

"Come on, Arthur. Go back to our room."

"Feel better, Skip!"

Martin flinched delicately.

"Arthur," Douglas said lowly.

"Oh, right! Sorry!" There were footsteps, followed by the slamming of a door.

Martin flinched again. His stomach flipped unkindly, and he sat up too fast, trying to fight the overwhelming urge to puke all over the hotel bed as he fought to get to his feet. Douglas was suddenly there, though, shoving a wastepaper basket into Martin's trembling hands.

"Vomit into the bin, thank you," Douglas stated idly, taking a seat next to Martin as he coughed and retched, bringing up bile and water in an unpleasant combination. "Heave ho," Douglas stated cheerfully, patting Martin's back forcefully.

He tried to stop trembling- the entire, rickety bed was shaking with his tremors- but it was to no avail. Just as it was pointless to try to blink away the stinging in his eyes, the sudden tears that had sprung to his eyes. Blinking just made them spill over and he quickly dashed them away, turning towards the far wall and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Feeling better?" Douglas asked. He sounded as if he were asking Arthur to make him tea, not as if Martin had just mortified himself.

Martin didn't know if he was making fun of him or not, so he opted to not speak. In favour of not breaking down into unwarranted tears, or once again vomiting, he just kept his mouth shut. He was trembling, though. Still trembling.

"Come on, don't ignore me," Douglas said, rubbing small circles on Martin's back. "It's just a bit of puke-"

Martin waved his hands a bit, swallowing. "Sh-Shhh..."

"Okay, it's a lot of puke."

"Douglas," Martin rasped, ignoring how warm the tips of his ears were.

"Fine, fine. Lay back down."

"Can-" Martin started, but quickly fell silent. He wasn't going to ask. He didn't like asking for things. Much less asking Douglas for something.

"Martin." Martin looked up. "What do you want?" Douglas continued.

"... Water?" Martin said. It ended up sounding like a question. His entire face was burning now, and he figured it probably would just be best to curl up under the blankets and disappear.

"I can't read your mind, Martin. You're predictable at best, but at your worst, I can't even begin to fathom." Douglas grabbed the styrofoam cup off of the nightstand, walking into the bathroom. There was the sound of water running before Douglas returned, handing the cup to Martin.

His shaking hands sent the water sploshing over the side of the cup. He gasped quietly as the cool water soaked through his shirt.

Douglas gave him a condescending look.

"I'm sorry!" Martin blurted, resisting the urge to throw his hands up or throw the cup across the room. He took a careful sip before attempting to sit the cup on the nightstand.

Douglas took it from him before he could spill it entirely. "Why are you apologizing to me?"

"Just- Just leave me alone," Martin gasped, voice breaking, rolling over onto his side and jerking the blankets over his head.

"Martin." The blankets were jerked away. Martin pulled them back. "Martin!"

"W-What?!"

"Stop fussing like a child. I don't know why you're apologizing or why you're bloody embarrassed to begin with. You know me and I know you; I've taken medical training and I've seen a lot worse, believe me. Now, don't get excited, but take off your shirt."

Martin blinked up at Douglas.

"You can't sleep in a wet shirt. You're already sick."

"Mmph..."

"Do not make me undress you, _Sir_."

"Fine!" Martin said quickly, fumbling with his shirt. He wanted to say that he didn't have anything else to wear, but he didn't have the ambition to actually speak it out loud. He was so tired...

His fingers finally unhooked the last button and he pulled his shirt off clumsily, dropping his head back onto the pillow wearily.

"Go back to sleep."

Even though he didn't like taking orders from anybody (he _was_ the Captain, after all...), he didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

**I adore... sick!Martin. I just do. And parental!Douglas. And, to the people following this story, sorry for the delay! ****_Sherlock_**** stories taking up time. **

**Thanks for your support! I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

"Sir...?"

Martin ignored the quiet voice over the throbbing of his head, trying to edge himself back into the deeper side of unconsciousness. It was dark and quiet, peaceful, over there...

"Martin?"

But, apparently, he wasn't meant to have any moment of peace.

"Martin."

"What..." he slurred, unsticking his tongue from the top of his mouth. His mouth was dry. He wanted something to drink, something warm, that would chase away the chills clinging to his body.

"Time for another dose of medicine."

Martin wasn't sure _why_ Douglas was insistent on giving him medicine, or really how it was going to help, but he knew that he _needed_ it, nonetheless. He placed a hand on the mattress, trying to prop himself up. The world spun violently. His stomach flipped and he barely managed to prevent getting sick on the bed. The floor, however, wasn't so fortunate.

"Okay, maybe we won't be having any medicine," Douglas replied shortly.

"Dou-" Martin tried, but he gagged again and slapped a hand over his mouth. Bile was burning the back of his throat and he just _didn't want to be bloody sick again_-

"Come on," Douglas was saying. "Come _on_, Martin," he repeating, grabbing Martin's shoulder and hauling him out of bed.

With much stumbling and some ashamed tears on Martin's behalf, Douglas managed to get him into the bathroom before he could get sick again, but he did allow himself to be sick again once he was safely in front of the toilet.

"I'm not sure if it's just a common fever you have, Martin," Douglas mused. His tone was offhand, again, like the pilot of MJN wasn't vomiting up his lungs in front of him. "Maybe it's the flu. Have you been feeling unwell?"

Martin shook his head weakly. "N-No-no," he muttered, shivering hard.

"Well, you would have had an incubation period, most likely," Douglas muttered. "Hm... Oh, are you cold?" he asked.

"F-F-Freez-zing," Martin stammered, swallowing. No sarcastic remark. He wanted to give Douglas a sarcastic remark but he was so damn tired and so _sick_-

A coat was placed over his shoulders. Martin paused in his sniveling to glance at the fabric, realizing that it was Douglas' coat.

"I believe that we're going to have to stay here a little longer than we first thought..." Douglas was saying. "Carolyn won't be pleased."

"No... W-We can go b-back," Martin stammered, trying to stand.

Douglas placed his hand on Martin's shoulder, preventing him from moving. "No. You're already ill enough. We don't need to put you in the air when you're this sick. If we weren't in this virtually run-down place, I could take you to a hospital and everything would be solved rather quickly..."

Did Douglas really sound... nervous? Worried? No... No, no, no. Martin had to be hearing him wrong.

"It's just... a f-fever," Martin muttered, dislodging Douglas' hand and standing shakily. His legs went out from under him. Douglas caught him.

And that was the moment that Martin decided that he just didn't care anymore.

"It's not a fever," Douglas ground out, and arms were wrapped around Martin's shivering body. They were tight and comforting, protective, and Martin was simply chuffed to have someone there to hold him up when he couldn't do it himself. He slumped against Douglas' chest, letting his eyes flutter shut. "I'm almost positive that it's the flu. You need to get more medicine and you're going to have to drink something."

Martin muttered something, something that he had meant to come out as _It won't stay down_, but it came out as an indecipherable mumble. He was too tired to be faintly annoyed with himself.

Douglas, however, seemed to understand. "I don't care if it comes back up. You need to try. Getting dehydrated will only make it worse."

"No, thanks..." he mumbled.

"Not asking," Douglas replied. "Prepare yourself."

Martin had half the notion to say _for what_ when he was suddenly whisked off his feet. His stomach lurched and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

Douglas had stopped moving, and Martin could feel eyes on him.

"However sick you may be, Martin, if you vomit on me, I will never speak to you again," Douglas said seriously.

Martin actually laughed weakly in response.

It seemed to be a good enough response for Douglas because the co-pilot carried him back into the bedroom, laying him carefully onto the bed.

Martin immediately fumbled for the blankets, well, blanket, drawing it over his head. It was pulled away almost immediately.

"If you want to do stupid things when you're alone and sick, be my guest. When you're with me, you're not going to do stupid things. Covering your head when you're already so hot is a stupid thing." Douglas glared down at him, but it didn't hold the usual annoyance or anger that it should have. "Besides, I didn't tell you to lay down. You need to drink, and take medicine."

"When..." Martin started weakly, clearing his throat. "When did you get so bossy...?" he mumbled, attempting to sit up slightly.

"When I felt your forehead. You're entirely too hot." He handed Martin the glass of water from before. "Sip at this. If you feel like getting sick..." He waved his hand towards the bin.

"I don't wanna..." Martin muttered, staring at the trembling surface of the water in the glass.

"Martin."

With a weary huff, he took a small sip. The water felt good against his throat. Chased away the sick taste in his mouth. He took another sip. Douglas was watching him closely; Martin glanced up over the brim of the glass.

"Good?"

"I think..." Martin murmured, taking another drink.

"Good." Douglas grabbed the bottle of paracetamol and popped the top. "Two pills. Go back to sleep. I'll fight your fever like I'm your own personal white blood cell."

Martin frowned at him as he placed the pills on his tongue, chasing them down with the water. "I think I sh-should appreciate the sentiment, but that was v-very rather odd, Douglas."

"Maybe the fever's going to my brain..." Douglas muttered in reply.

"How could it... It's my-my fever..." Martin mumbled.

"Because I'm the one who has to take care of you, as usual."

As usual.

Any trace of humour that Martin had been clinging to disappeared. Now it was just back to the-

"Of _course_, it _is_ the co-pilot's job to take care of the pilot..." Douglas continued. "So, I suppose I don't mind so much." Martin glanced back at him. "Where would MJN be without its pilot?"

It took Martin a few seconds to work through that. He decided it was another moment where he couldn't tell if Douglas was making fun of him or not. So, he said nothing, just watching Douglas warily.

"... If you keep giving me those puppy dog eyes, I'm going to start giving you kibble instead of paracetamol."

He blinked, feeling his ears go warm again. Puppy dog eyes... How did he- Was he really- The sickness was getting to him...! He placed an arm over his eyes, trying to not be embarrassed.

But _puppy dog eyes_? He didn't _have_ puppy dog eyes. He couldn't _make_ puppy dog eyes. He just... pathetic. He was pathetic, but not sad puppy. Unless sad puppy and pathetic were the same things. Actually, they probably were-

"To be fair, Martin, those puppy eyes would melt the heart of any woman. Perhaps you should-"

Martin rolled onto his side, pressing his hand over his free ear. Dating advice... He didn't want dating advice from Douglas. He didn't want dating advice at _all_, because they had long since learned that he literally _couldn't_ date.

Literally.

Although...

... he had never tried using puppy eyes on a girl before-

Jeez, Martin, go to sleep!

Feeling vaguely more embarrassed than when he'd gone on the vomiting spree, Martin ducked his head and tried to get some sleep.

* * *

**So, if there are still followers following this story, here's another chapter! :D Some more humour, because every _Cabin Pressure_ fic needs humour, eh?**

**I would love to hear your thoughts! Thank you!**


	8. Chapter 8

8

"So, is Skip any better?"

"Yes, do enlighten us with your expertise, Douglas, because I would love to get out of this forsaken hotel. Can you _imagine _how much money I'm spending?!"

"Oh yes, Carolyn. It must be breaking your bank. No matter if your pilot dies en-route, as long as your money stays safely in your hands."

"That's what I'm asking you, Douglas: is death _very_ likely? Actually, nevermind, I don't want to know. You can fly the plane just as well as he could."

"I am not getting back on that on plane until I know that he is well."

"Well, is he well enough?"

"He is not; therefore, I am not leaving."

"Oh-"

"Look, if it's so important, take it out of my paycheck."

"Oh, I am! I will! I already have!"

Martin pried his eyes open, wondering if he was really awake or just dreaming. He was listening to his co-workers discussing his state of health. Carolyn sounded pretty in-character, but Douglas was veering off left. Douglas only came to work for that paycheck. Now he was offering to give it away?

Martin shivered. Douglas being intense made him a slight bit frightened, because it meant that Douglas would want something from it, or else Martin was going to have to pay up for it.

He snaked his fingers to his opposite wrist, pinching himself. It hurt. The world didn't change. He had to be awake.

"Well, then I don't see the issue, then. Let me work in peace."

"You aren't 'working'. If you were 'working', we'd be flying to Rome right now!"

"Actually, we'd probably be flying back."

"What?"

"Well, enough time has elapsed, so..."

Martin has stumbled across the room carefully and now shut the bathroom door quietly. They could argue all they wanted. He would have been concerned if they hadn't argued. Chaos was natural to their airline.

He picked his way across the bathroom, only pausing long enough to look at himself in the mirror. He was pale. His eyes were red, looking faintly like he'd been crying. He scrubbed his fingers across them briefly, sighing. His throat still felt sore, and his head was still pounding. He pressed one of his hands against his own forehead. He thought his skin felt warm. Of course, it was pointless to try to figure it out because his own temperature judgement was messed up. Let alone the fact that one couldn't touch-test one's own temperature.

He glanced towards the shower. He wanted a shower. Douglas would probably yell at him.

He decided to skip the shower.

Instead, he went about his daily morning routine, even if it wasn't morning, even managing to dislodge his toothbrush from his small bag and brush his teeth. It was a testament to hygiene at how refreshed he felt after that simple action.

The shower was really sounding like a good idea.

He was just contemplating the shower for a moment, wondering if his legs would hold out for that long, when the bathroom door swung open.

Martin gave a highly embarrassing squeaking noise as he jumped backwards.

"Do you mind telling me what you're doing?" Douglas asked, leaning against the door frame.

"You- I-" Martin spluttered, drawing himself up. "Knock!" he finished, drawing himself up indignantly.

Douglas held up his hands. "I was just concerned for Sir's safety and well-being, as is per the usual."

"Well, go away," Martin muttered, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He was still pale, although there was now a sharp contrast of red in his cheeks. "I'm going to have a shower."

"Are you?" Douglas sounded disbelieving.

"I am," Martin replied stubbornly. He crossed the short distance to the shower, although he did stumble over his own feet. He could practically _hear_ Douglas' eyebrows hitching up, the smirk playing across his lips. He just waited for the sarcastic comment-

"And are you going to require any assistance?"

"No!" Martin retorted quickly, feeling his blush deepen and spread to the tips of his ears. Douglas' soft laugh from behind him made him want to crawl into the shower and possibly down the drain. "Go away."

"I simply don't feel comfortably leaving you here by yourself, where you could fall and I would never know."

"Well, you're not showering with me!" he blurted.

There was silence for a moment, followed by:

"That's not really what I was thinking of, actually."

There was more silence, followed by:

"Oh."

Martin tested the water dubiously, refusing to meet Douglas' gaze. He could just imagine the smirk that was on his face. He loved to humiliate him, didn't he? He _loved_ to torture him-

"I'll stay right here, just in case," Douglas said, breaking Martin's embarrassed thoughts.

"What?" Martin breathed, looking at him incredulously. "_No_. We're not having a chat through the shower door! I'll be fine!"

"While the fact that you're arguing with me makes me more relieved than I show, I simply must insist. I can wait outside if that makes you more comfortable, but the bathroom door will stay open."

Martin sighed heavily. Exhaustion was already starting to weigh on his mind, and if he didn't get in the shower soon, he was going to be too tired to shower at all.

"Fine." He grabbed the door, planning to swing it shut.

"Martin."

"I have to undress!" he said hotly.

Douglas sighed. "As self-conscious as a young woman," he muttered, grabbing the door and pulling it closed.

When Martin was sure that Douglas wasn't going to burst back in, he quickly shed his clothes and stepped into the stream of water, being careful to close the shower door tightly.

The initial warmth of the water that he was careful not to have too hot was bliss in the cold temperature. He closed his eyes in a moment of relaxation before Douglas knocked. Martin opened his eyes irritably.

"Yes, I'm fine," he said loudly over the rush of the water.

The bathroom door creaked open. The annoyed tones of Douglas Richardson filtered to Martin over the water. "Don't have the water too hot. Just lukewarm."

"I know."

"And don't plan on staying in there long."

"I _know_," Martin muttered, feeling infinitely more self-conscious than he knew he had any right to be. Douglas was outside, in the bedroom, outside of the bathroom door, which was only partially open, and Martin was in the shower, which was separated by yet another door, the shower door, but... There was something just unhappy about the whole situation.

Luckily, Douglas kept himself silent and Martin was once again able to relax.

After some time, however, Douglas' silence did end.

"Martin?"

"I know..." Martin muttered, turning the tap off. He hated to relinquish the warm water- even lukewarm water- to return to shivering and shaking.

"You're still feeling okay?"

"As okay as I can feel," Martin muttered, easing the shower door open. He clumsily reached out to push the bathroom door a bit more closed before stepping out and hurriedly grabbing the towel. Next to the towel, there was a small pile of clothing that turned out to be an old pair of Martin's pyjamas. He blinked, pinching the fabric between his fingers. He had thought he had lost those...

He quickly dressed, loving the feel of the soft cotton of his worn-down pyjamas against his skin. He opened the bathroom door and stared down at Douglas, whom was sitting, cross-legged, on the floor.

"Where did you get my pjs?" he asked. "I thought I lost them."

"They were on the plane. They've been on the plane for months. We thought that they just fell out of someone's luggage bag and threw them in the lost and found box." Douglas looked up. "But they are yours? That's convenient." He stood. "You've brushed your teeth, you've had your shower, and you're looking remarkably dapper in those wrinkly old things, _so_ let's get you into bed."

"Don't knock my pjs. They're so comfortable. And they've just been washed... how have they just been washed if they've been on the plane?"

"Didn't you know? We installed a washing machine in the cargo hold."

Martin blinked up at Douglas as he stumbled back to bed.

"The hotel washed them for us, Martin," Douglas said, after a moment.

"Oh." Martin crawled into bed, pulling the blankets close. "Thanks," he added as an after-thought, feeling incredibly warm and sleepy.

Douglas smiled faintly. "No problem. No problem at all..."

* * *

**Ugh. I realized I haven't updated this in a month. I'm sorry. Now, as for Martin's health... He may seem better, but... Lighthearted fluffy comedy for you in this chapter. **

**Hopefully my followers are still reading! I'd love to hear from you! Thanks!**


	9. Chapter 9

**9**

"... 's not good, Martin. The shower probably didn't..."

Martin blinked his eyes open, ignoring the little spasms of pain that came with the motion. He didn't think that opening his eyes should cause so much pain, and wondered vaguely what had happened.

"Dou'las..." he murmured, tiredly, trying to form a question as to what was happening.

"Martin? Ah, you're with me." There was suddenly the pressure of Douglas' hand against his back, and Martin found himself being coaxed into a sitting position. He tried to complain- he wanted to go back to sleep- but he was too tired. "I need you to take these pills, and drink this water. Okay?" Douglas' voice was quiet but firm, a worried demand.

Martin tried to complain again, mutter something about not wanting to drink anything because his stomach felt terrible, but he felt the mug against his lips and he was forced to take a drink that ended with much coughing and spluttering.

"Good, now, open your mouth. Pills, Martin."

Martin forced his eyes open again, blinking a few times. Focus. He had to focus. Medicine. Yes...

He clumsily accepted the pills from Douglas and placed them on his tongue. He struggled to take another drink of the water, nearly choking on it again.

"Be careful," was Douglas' retort, his hand still resting on Martin's back.

"What's happening..." he slurred, blinking his eyes open once again. They kept fluttering closed on their own accord, and it was driving Martin crazy.

"Your fever's gone up. It's at forty-one. I'm debating just getting you on the plane and flying you to somewhere with a good hospital."

"Oh..." Martin murmured, his eyelids flickering closed again.

"Stay awake, Martin."

Martin didn't re-open his eyes. He didn't want to listen to Douglas... he didn't have to listen to Douglas... he was the captain; Douglas was his co-pilot...

"Martin," Douglas repeated.

Martin felt pressure on his forehead, that he realized was Douglas' hand. Probably checking his temperature...

... and then it seemed like Douglas was tapping his face, shaking his shoulder, and Martin finally re-opened his eyes.

"Stoppit..." he mumbled.

"Martin, you need to stay awake." Douglas' voice was a demand, an order, like _he_ was the captain ordering his co-pilot. "I want you to stay awake until your fever goes down."

Martin wanted to complain, to tell him that he wasn't going to stay awake that long; his fever might not drop for awhile and he was too tired to stay awake, but he couldn't find the strength.

"Martin," Douglas repeated. "_Martin_." There was a pause, followed by an "Okay, fine".

Martin felt arms around him and he was quite suddenly subjected to being wrenched away from his bed. It took him a minute to realize that Douglas was carrying him again. He wanted to tell the barmy co-pilot to let him sleep, but instead, he was too worried about the swaying motion of the world. He closed his eyes tightly and turned his face into Douglas' shirt.

* * *

When consciousness surged up again, Martin found himself in the bathroom. He didn't know how he got here, but he had clearly been asleep. As with most things, he didn't question it.

He shivered slightly and curled up a bit more. With a jolt, he realized that his pyjama shirt was missing.

Martin shivered again and closed his eyes, curling closer to the warmth nearby.

"Are you awake...?"

Martin opened his eyes again. That voice had been too close.

He realized that his head was pillowed against Douglas' shoulder.

He immediately sat up.

"Ah, no," Douglas said, snaking an arm around him. Martin wanted to squirm away, but he felt too tired and weak and Douglas' grip was anything but weak. "Use me as a pillow all you like. I am exceedingly comfortable, it's true."

Martin opened his mouth to say something, but his voice was hoarse and his throat was scratchy and all he ended up with was a sort of weak huff.

Douglas uncapped a bottle of water and handed it to Martin. Martin took it with unsteady hands and sipped at it.

"Your fever's gone down," Douglas murmured. Martin looked at him; he sounded tired. "But only slightly," Douglas continued. "It's back into the forty range, but it's still not good."

Martin took another sip of water before sitting the bottle down.

"How are you feeling?"

"Sick," Martin replied after a moment, one where he started shivering again.

"Yeah, you're still not totally with me yet..." Douglas muttered. "You're not yet embarrassed over me taking care of you..."

Martin didn't respond, only blinked tiredly. He hardly wanted to use Douglas as a pillow again, but he was exhausted and starting to drift off already.

"You're going to need keep drinking that water. You're dehydrated, if I'm not wrong, which I'm not. Plus, the water will help diminish your temperature and we can get out of this situation quicker, and finally get back home..."

"Sorry..." Martin murmured.

There was a pause, followed by a confused-sounding "What?".

"I'm trouble..." Martin muttered, closing his eyes and not finding the strength to open them again. He didn't care to meet Douglas' gaze, anyway.

"Naturally. You've just figured this out? Gosh. You must be sicker than I thought."

Martin only shivered in respond, slumping slightly against Douglas again. He felt horrible. He had felt sick when Douglas had given him medicine, really sick, and now he felt marginally better, but he still didn't feel like his mind was working correctly.

And all he could say was that he was sorry.

Because he was. He was so much trouble... Trouble for MJN, trouble for Carolyn, trouble for Douglas, (he wasn't really trouble for Arthur because Arthur didn't get troubled), trouble for his parents, for his father, for their passengers and everything and everyone...

And it wasn't like he didn't try to take care of himself, because he did, even though he often failed. And that's what he did, he failed... over and over and _over_...

"But you're not _too _much trouble..." Douglas said quietly.

Martin didn't respond, figuring that he must have simply imagined those words.

* * *

**So, I haven't trashed this story. I got to listen to mostly all of Cabin Pressure (finally) and I was inspired to work on this again. **

**Martin's inner turmoil, made worse by this illness, finally breaks the silence; all the while, Douglas is just trying to be a good doctor. Martin needs a hug... although Douglas says that it's not that simple to break a fever. :p**

**Your thoughts are always appreciated. Thank you!**


	10. Chapter 10

"Get _off_ the blankets," Martin growled, wrenching the blankets closer. He was cold and he was going to try his damned best to get warmer, but someone was holding onto the blankets.

"Stop fussing..." was the slurred reply.

Martin blinked his eyes open and peered towards where the voice originated.

What he found nearly sent him reeling across the bedroom.

Douglas was sprawled out at the foot of his bed.

Douglas _Richardson_ was sleeping at the _foot_ of his _bed_.

"W-What are you doing?!" Martin stammered, wrenching the blankets closer (as close as possible, with Douglas' weight on them) as his face heated up with embarrassment.

"As was somewhat obvious, I _was_ trying to sleep," Douglas muttered, propping himself up on his elbow. "But you've crashed every hope of that... Feeling better, then?"

"I- You-"

"You're as red as a tomato, so I'd reckon you are." Douglas stood and stretched, before reaching over and placing his hand against Martin's forehead.

Martin shifted uncomfortably.

"L-Look, I'm _really_ grateful for everything that you've done, but I think I can manage it on my own now, thanks," he muttered, flickering his gaze away as Douglas stepped away.

"I'm the one with medical training, so I will be the judge of that, thank you," Douglas said. "But I have to begrudgingly agree with you, Captain. Your fever has gone down significantly. Which also explains why you're drenched with sweat," Douglas muttered, rubbing his hand on his shirt.

Martin only then noticed that he _was_ covered in sweat. Even the sheets were damp.

He shuddered and ducked his head.

"So, my fever broke...?"

"It would seem so. Here, Captain McSweaty. Take your temperature."

Martin took the thermometer that he was handed. "Where did you get a thermometer...?"

"Don't ask silly questions, Martin. I have everything at my beck and call."

Martin shivered again and peeled his pyjamas away from his chest after he had placed the thermometer under his tongue. Sitting in drenched pyjamas and cuddling with damp sheets was not the idea that Martin had had when he had tried to pull the blankets closer a few moments ago. It was, in a word, uncomfortable. Terribly so.

"Good, it's nearly back to normal," Douglas said, when the reading was finished. "I would have thought that it would be normal, due to your sweating, but it seems that not everything resolves itself overnight."

"Right..." Martin muttered. He pushed the blankets out of the way and stumbled to his feet. His shirt and trousers were clinging to him; his oh-so-comfortable pyjamas were no longer comfortable.

"Ugh," he murmured, peeling the fabric away again.

"You look as though you've wet the bed," Douglas remarked on the off-hand.

"Well, I haven't!" Martin retorted with another flush of embarrassment. "Not this time!"

Douglas raised his eyebrows.

"No, no, I mean, not- when I was a _child_, Douglas!" Martin spluttered. There were many times that Douglas made him want to curl up in a dark corner and hide his face in shame, but this was possibly just taking the cake. The fact that Douglas hadn't even said anything else made it worse, because Martin was just digging himself deeper into the embarrassment.

_Shut up, Martin, you ridiculous clot_, he thought to himself, determinedly looking away from Douglas.

"Why does that not surprise me?" Douglas murmured, sounding amused.

"Like you didn't," Martin retorted sulkily, starting for the bathroom. All this talk of using the loo... Plus, he was in dire need of yet _another _shower.

Douglas chuckled, but Martin refused to look at him. The very _last_ thing he needed right now was to be entirely self-conscious and worrying by default. He had a sad suspicion that all of his self-conscious worrying in childhood hadn't done any good for deflecting embarrassing situations. The _last_ thing he wanted to do was to give Douglas another reason to laugh at him.

When Martin resurfaced from his shower, feeling warmer and much calmer, and very, very sleepy again, Douglas was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Martin hitched his towel a little closer and quickly found his freshly laundered uniform in his bag. He retreated back to the bathroom and redressed. While sleeping in uniform wasn't entirely comfortable, he found that he didn't mind in the least. (He'd fallen asleep in uniform many times before, thus showing up to work the next day with wrinkled clothes.)

Martin had only just picked up the water bottle from the bedside table when Douglas spoke.

"Your secret's safe with me," Douglas rumbled, sounding amused.

Martin took a drink of the water before placing the cap back on, hesitantly turning towards the bed. How was he going to deal with the sheets-

"I called for new blankets, so those are fine for sleeping."

Starting to feel appropriately mortified again, Martin looked at Douglas. "What did you tell them...?" he asked, although afraid of the answer.

Douglas seemed unfazed. "That your fever broke."

Martin stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was lying. He couldn't tell, though, so he just carefully crawled back into bed.

"Valerie Smith," Douglas said.

Martin looked back at Douglas, frowning. "What?"

"Valerie Smith turned me down in front of a whole gymnasium of secondary-schoolers after I asked her out. It was mortifying, although, of course, at our school reunion, _she_ was mortifying..."

Martin stared. Someone had turned Douglas _Richardson_ down? Someone had... had... made _Douglas_ humiliated? How did that- How was that-

"Yes, it was shocking to me, too, at the time..." Douglas murmured.

"_Why?_" Martin gasped.

Douglas looked at him. "If I recall correctly, I was a 'womanizing old bat', but I may be thinking of someone else..."

"No, I mean, why are you telling me this?" Martin said quickly, settling down into the blankets.

Douglas shrugged. "Now we're even." He paused. "But I warn you, Martin, if you _ever_ mention that to anyone, _especially_ Arthur or Carolyn... I am a _brilliant_ story-teller. The story doesn't even have to be true. I'm so grand that I can make people believe anything."

Martin flushed slightly and pulled the blankets close. He didn't even want to know what stories Douglas could make up that involved Martin's childhood bed-wetting.

Besides...

"Who would I tell?" Martin asked aloud. "You three are my family. And I, unlike some people, actually keep secrets."

"As long as there's not a good buying price, that is."

"That's not fair; I would never betray anyone for money. Not if it was serious," Martin retorted tiredly. Exhaustion was weighing heavily on his mind, and while he appreciated the small talk, he really just wanted to fall back asleep.

"Is that why you won't look for another job?"

"I'm sticking with MJN because I like MJN..."

"You work with a thief, an idiot, and a shark. You don't even get paid, Martin."

Martin pried his eyes open, frowning. "It doesn't matter. None of that matters. Sure, money's important, but I'm doing the thing that I wanted to do and..." he trailed off, closing his eyes again. "And I think I'm where I should be, is all."

It was silent for long enough for Martin to nearly nod off, but Douglas spoke, quietly, seconds before he could.

"Well, it certainly wouldn't be MJN without you... Let's see... Instead of 'My Jet Now'... 'Martin's Jumpy Nerves?' Hm... 'Martin's Joyous Neck?' Do you have a joyous neck, Sir? 'Martin's Job News...' Today, on Martin's Job News, the pilot and co-pilot are still being under paid..."

Martin, too tired to tell Douglas to shut up, just smiled faintly as he nodded off.

* * *

"Wow, Skip, you look much better!"

"Well, I do _feel_ much better, so I think that has something to do with it."

"Douglas, you're a _brilliant_ doctor!"

"Is there anything that isn't brilliant, Arthur?"

"Don't forget Gordon."

"Ah, right. How _could_ I forget about the unbrilliant ex-husband of Carolyn's..."

"Why are you all talking about my heinous ex-husband? Exes are exes for a reason and I would prefer him to stay where he rightfully belongs: in my _past_," Carolyn said, walking up. "Unless you would like to marry him, Douglas?"

"Oh, hey Mum! Look, Skip's better!" Arthur beamed.

Martin sneezed.

"Yes, he looks the picture of health. Are we still going to make our _delayed_ departure time, or shall I just sit on the aeroplane all night in hopes that we get out of this pitiful little airport?"

"We're going to make the departure time," Martin muttered.

"Of course we will, Carolyn. Do relax."

"Don't tell me to relax, Douglas. Do you know how many days I've been stuck here? Do you?"

Douglas raised his eyebrows. "I've been taking care of your sick pilot for those days, in case you've forgotten."

"And I'm glad. He's healthy. He can fly the plane. That's all I need to know."

"Mum, should we really have Martin flying? He's still ill and-"

"No," Martin interrupted, "no, I'm fine. We'll be right there."

"I know you will be. Chop chop."

Martin watched Carolyn walk away, sighing quietly. "She's upset."

"No."

Martin looked at Douglas. "What? Of course she is."

"No," Douglas said tolerately. "She may seem like she's mad, but I can tell that she's really only about a five."

"D'you think, Douglas? More like a seven, if you ask me."

"No, it's definitely a _five_. I would hazard a guess that she's relieved you're better."

"She's only relieved because we get to fly out..." Martin mumbled.

"I said she was relieved. Don't push your luck on the how's and why's. What are the puddings today, Arthur?"

"Uhhh... Pistachio and chocolate fudge."

"Where _do_ we get these combinations?"

"Mum orders them."

"Of course she does..."

Martin sank into the pilot's seat. "Walk-around's finished, then?"

"Yep," Douglas said, flopping into his own chair.

"I still could have done it myself."

"All you're going to do is sit in that chair and fly this plane. That, for you, will be difficult enough."

Martin huffed.

* * *

It was twenty minutes into their flight that their _Brians of Britain_ was interrupted.

It wasn't interrupted by Carolyn on the intercom.

It wasn't interrupted by Arthur trying to name a Brian.

It wasn't interrupted by ATC.

It wasn't interrupted by a thunderstorm or a flock of herrings or little bits of Gertie flying off into outer space.

It was Douglas...

... Douglas _Richardson_, the _co-pilot_, _sneezing_.

Martin jumped when Douglas sneezed, looking towards him.

Douglas' expression was surprised for a moment, before it turned to a glance of loathing. Martin felt, incredibly so, terrified for his life.

"... Bless you..."

"I despise you, Martin."

"D-Do you...?" Martin hurriedly looked back at the controls.

"I really, really do," Douglas replied, grabbing the pack of tissues.

* * *

**Even though he really, really doesn't.**

**Well, that was my first _Cabin Pressure_ multi!chapter... Hopefully, those who read it liked it. Thank you for every favourite, follow, and review. It is all very much appreciated. You all are _brilliant_.**

**Thank you!**


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